March arrived like an angry lion
With a thorn within its paw
The rains were hard,
The winds were high,
And many suffered afterward.
But the lion could not destroy
The hope of the approaching Spring
It's found in every rainbow hue,
In every standing tree.
The mettle of every daffodil bloom
Stands fierce before each storm
Delicate sentinels bravely take
The best the lion can born.
So I pick myself up, wipe the muck off,
Taking cue from nature's survivors,
The lion has left and here I'll stay,
A testament to my own forebearance.